


Stained Silk

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Crossdressing, Daddy Issues, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gods the issues these two have, M/M, Mommy Issues, Multi, Oral Sex, Painful Sex, Roleplay, Rough Sex, Spit As Lube, Theon lusts after every member of the Stark family old enough to be lusted after, Verbal Humiliation, angsty porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 08:49:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8483101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Theon wears a dress. Jon wears a face. Neither of them quite gets what they want.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neliore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neliore/gifts).



> Written for the asoiaf kink meme prompt: "Theon/Jon dub-con. Theon is really into crossdressing so he sometimes steals Lady Stark's clothes and wears them when he is alone in his chamber. Jon catches him and vents all his anger and frustration for the way Catelyn treats him out on Theon. + if Theon likes it because Jon looks so much like Ned."
> 
> Writing this sort of reminded me I should be working on the sequel to Billions of Years in Anonymous Matter. ~~Or, like, my assignments.~~

Theon's long since given up on trying to justify it to himself. When he was a boy, he thought of it as espionage, trying to know the Starks better – his father would be proud to hear everything Theon had learned once he got back. When he was a youth, he assumed it was the madness of his body, telling him to experiment with everything he could, even things a proud Ironborn lad should not be interested in (even things his father would strike him from the family if he ever heard of).

But Theon is, by most reckonings, a man grown now, and yet he hasn't stopped. He's run out of excuses. Now he just does it, and hates himself for it later.

His hands are shaking, which he doesn't think they would if he could do this more often. But he's not going to risk it when Lady Stark is actually around, let alone her husband. He can only do it now because they've gone off to the Karhold or somewhere, and taken their children with them, meaning the servants aren't snooping around the Lord and Lady's chambers as much as usual, and without Robb no-one's going to come looking for Theon while he's in the middle of this. Of course, Theon doesn't really think Robb would tell anyone if he did catch him, but he can't bear the thought of Robb knowing. Robb is the person he's most afraid of being told.

(Usually Robb gets left behind, because of that there-must-always-be-a-Stark-in-Winterfell bullshit, but the Karstarks insisted he come. Theon's heard they're trying to marry that girl of theirs to him. Theon doesn't want to think too much about that.)

A gust of cold air blows through that window he can never get entirely closed, and he shivers. The dress is a midnight blue, or maybe purple, so dark it's almost black – the colour of the sea at night, or maybe bruises. It's one of Lady Stark's oldest dresses, and the silk is thin, more suited to her native Riverlands than the snows of the North – even less so without the chemise and petticoats a proper lady would wear underneath, because Theon's never figured out how to get those fastened up without a maid to help. He would go add another log to the fire, but the dress has long draping sleeves and a train behind it, and he's worried he might set the fucking thing alight. His nipples harden as he stares at himself in the mirror, and he kneads them with the heels of his hands. He moans softly at the feel of silk rubbing over sensitive skin, and his prick jumps slightly under the skirt.

It doesn't always turn him on, when he does this, but he's done it so rarely lately that the sensation overwhelms him, and anything overwhelming for Theon tends to come out through his prick (anything Theon feels at all tends to come out through his prick.)

He sighs and goes to sit on his bed, stroking his cock through silk so thin it's almost translucent. It makes him feel a little guilty, getting himself off in Lady Stark's clothes like this – or at least, afraid of what Lord Stark would do if he saw the stains. But feeling guilty or afraid or both has never been enough to stop him doing anything, so he pulls the skirts up around his waist and lays back, falling into the strange mix of sensations on his bare skin, southern silk and northern fur. He wonders if that's what it's like for Lady Stark when she fucks her husband. He doesn't know what Lord Stark looks like beneath his northerner's wools and skins, but he's seen Robb and knows his chest sports an impressive amount of hair for a boy of his age, although he's also seen Snow's and knows his is almost entirely bare, so who knows which of them takes after their father. But why the silk? He thinks Lady Stark would be above getting fucked half-dressed like a two-copper whore, although it is a nice image.

_I'm not above getting fucked half-dressed._ That's not – that's not why he does this, even if he is starting to fist his cock a little faster. He's considered it though, asking one of the girls at the brothel if she wouldn't mind him dressing up, but whores gossip. Even if they didn't, Theon doesn't want to see the judgement in their eyes – even if, rationally, he knows they must see weirder things.

Theon sighs, leans back, and tries to think of something else. He thinks of Lady Catelyn. Well, her dress, she would be on his mind – he pictures her in it, soft pink nipples shining through the inkly fabric. He sees her on all fours, taking it from behind. _Lady Stark would never do that._ But whatever, it's just a fantasy, right? He tries to imagine himself fucking her, but that's too implausible to even fantasise about. He'll never fuck Lady Stark. Clue is in the name. Sansa, maybe, if Lord Stark decides he wants to tether the Ironborn to the Seven Kingdoms with a marriage – but Sansa is still a bit too young to think about fucking. Theon has some standards.

(Lady Stark does have another child that looks just like her, who's older than Sansa, but Theon won't think about that.)

No, he can't see himself fucking Lady Stark. He can see Lord Stark fucking her though. He groans and bites his lip as he pictures it, his rough, square hands all over her, tearing her fancy silks off, taking this foreign whore for his own. _Lord Stark would never treat his wife like that._ But it's just a fantasy, and it makes Theon so fucking hard, that gruff northern voice spitting foul things, _Slut. Bitch. Saltwife–_

“Greyjoy?”

Theon almost jumps out of skin. _Fuck!_ Of course, Lord and Lady Stark have taken all _their_ children away, but not all _his_ children. “What do you want, Snow?!” he shouts, desperately trying to tear the dress off before Snow comes in, and he realises that was a mistake because maybe if he hadn't said anything Snow would have thought he wasn't in his rooms, shit he's coming in–

“Maester Luwin said he needed to see you about something, I really didn't want to ask why, what are you–” the door swings open and Theon freezes, dress still wrapped around him but pulled down enough to leave his chest half bare, and Snow is staring, struck dumb, and Theon stares back, and he just doesn't know what to do.

A creak from the bottom of the stairs makes Theon jump, snaps him out of his stupor. The door's still open, anyone could see. He looks away, turning red in shame. “Shut the door,” he begs, barely able to speak, and Snow, thank every fucking god in every fucking heaven, does.

That doesn't really fix the problem though, because Snow is still there, and he can see everything – Theon's still hard, for fuck's sake – and Theon can't even bring himself to look at him. He wishes Snow would just _go_ , but then he doesn't because that would mean Snow's going to tell everyone, before Theon gets the chance to beg or threaten or _something_ him into staying quiet. Not that he has any idea what he can do. Why wouldn't Snow tell everyone? They've always hated each other, and if he's honest (which he isn't), Theon knows he's given Snow plenty good reason to want to humiliate him. He'd tell Robb in an instant; Jon tells Robb everything. Why wouldn't he tell everyone what a sick, sad little pervert the heir to the Iron Islands really is? He doesn't give a shit what happens to Theon after.

(If he's honest, which he isn't, Theon has some idea of what he could do. But he's not going to think about that.)

He manages to look up again, if only because he doesn't know what else he can do. Something strange has clouded over Snow's face – his pupils are blown wide, it's not that dark in here – and he's coming closer, fuck, why is he coming closer?

Theon should stand up, he should move, he should punch Snow's stupid face in and tell him he'll kill him if he says anything, but he doesn't do any of those things. He just sits there, waiting for the Bastard of Winterfell to come to him. There is something about Snow like this – he's not tall, but Theon forgets that, he looms above Theon, stern and proud and as cold as ice, he looks so much like–

He jumps when Snow gently presses a soft thumb to his bottom lip. “Lady Stark.”

His cock jerks so violently you can see it through the dress, and Theon wonders why it did that. Which word was it responding to?

When he looks, he sees a telltale bulge in Snow's breeches. Oh. “Are you lonely? Has my father been neglecting you?” _Snow, have you lost your stupid bastard mind?_ Theon wants to ask, but when he opens his mouth to speak Jon just shoves his thumb between Theon's lips. Theon starts sucking it instantaneously. Why, why does he do that? “That's right,” Snow smirks at him, and Theon's stomach flips, “I'll give you what you need, my lady. But you have to do something for me first.”

He yanks his thumb away and Theon has some idea where this is going. He should say no. He should say that Snow's gone crazy. He should say something. But he doesn't, instead he just watches and waits as Snow fumbles with his laces – still a green boy, no matter how intimidating he tries to be – and pulls out his hard cock.

Theon's heart races at the sight of it. It should be disgusting, it should make Theon wilt right then and there, but it doesn't. Quite the opposite. He only gets harder when Snow's large square hand grabs his jaw, sticking his thumb back between Theon's lips to pry them open. “Suck me off, Lady Stark, and I'll fuck you better than my father ever did.”

His cock jumps again at the sound of those words. He shouldn't, but he lets his mouth hang open readily – eagerly. Snow laughs before he pushes his cock down Theon's throat in one smooth thrust.

Theon gags immediately and Snow pulls back – he probably doesn't want Theon puking all over his cock. Instead Snow limits himself to shallow moves, back and forth between Theon's lips, while Theon groans around his prick and hesitantly starts to suck. He shouldn't be doing this. But, he reasons, Snow will probably tell everyone what he saw if he doesn't.

(Would Snow really do that? It doesn't sound like him. But, he reasons, it's not worth the risk.)

“There you go,” Snow says as Theon wraps a hand around the base of him, stroking as he sucks. He's never done this before, but he tries to remember his favourite tricks his whores and wenches have used on him – he wants it to be good. Why, why does he want that? “Eager cocksucker, aren't you?” Snow's hand winds through Theon's dark hair. “I wouldn't have expected it. But I suppose you Tullys have those cheekbones for a reason.”

Theon moans and hollows his cheeks out around Snow's cock as much as he possibly can. Lady Stark does have amazing cheekbones, Theon's imagined them hollowed out around his own cock once or twice (although maybe it wasn't always her he imagined hollowing them). His don't really compare, but he tries. Why is he trying so hard?

Snow's hand pushes him down further, though Theon manages not to gag this time. “Mm, there we go. Proper perfect Catelyn Tully, sucking my cock like a two-copper whore.” Something bitter swells in Theon's gut. _That's not who I am._ Does it matter? Does he really want Jon Snow to be thinking of him while he sucks him off? That might be the only thing that could make this weirder. Why is Snow doing this? Theon doesn't even look anything like Lady Stark. He should be doing it to Robb – but no, Snow would never. First of all, he and Robb are brothers. Second of all, he and Robb are _brothers_ ; Robb loves Snow as much as anyone (more than he loves Theon), and Jon knows that, he'd never take his resentment out on him.

Just about the only thing Theon and Lady Stark have in common is their disdain for Jon Snow. That might be why.

“What are your family words again?” _We do not sow._ Well so far, it seems like Snow is going to be the one sowing in him. “Family, duty, honour. Tell me, what is so honourable about sucking off your husband's bastard son?”

Theon can't really talk right now, so instead he just moans as Snow pushes him down deeper, slowly starting to fuck his throat. “Filthy slut,” Snow says. “You do this for my father?”

He finds himself nodding. Why? Of course he doesn't do this for Lord Stark, Lord Stark is far too honourable to take advantage of his ward like that (and he's probably not interested anyway). And as for whether Lady Stark does this, well, how would Theon know? Snow snorts. “Of course you do. You're dutiful like that. Such a good wife, such a good mother–” Snow suddenly thrusts right to the back of Theon's throat, making him gag, and Snow hisses and curses, “–such a good whore.”

Theon whimpers slightly as his cock throbs beneath his silk skirt. He doesn't know why, but something about looking up into those grey eyes and hearing that voice call him a _good whore_ – gods, he's hard, and he knows he shouldn't be.

“I suppose you have to keep up,” Snow muses. What? “You think _my_ mother would have done this without question, so long as she was paid enough.”

He groans as Snow starts to thrust in and out of his mouth faster. Of course, Jon Snow and all his mother issues – Jon Snow, the one stain on the great Ned Stark's honour, living proof that the man is even capable of wanting anyone other than his wife. Theon is so hard it hurts. “Is that why?” Snow asks, almost – almost _hurt_. “Do you get sick of playing the whore, but you feel like you have to, otherwise he might go wandering again. So you take it out on me, because you can get away with it.”

It's not as complicated as that. Lady Stark just doesn't like remembering her husband was once unfaithful, and she has to live with a permanent reminder of it. That last bit is accurate enough though. That's the other thing he and Lady Stark have in common – they don't like Jon Snow and they can get away with letting him know it. Although not liking Jon Snow doesn't explain why Theon is letting the bastard fuck his mouth like this.

Really, Snow would have been better off if when he was born Lord Stark had sent him to live with some other lord he trusted, like most men of his status do with bastards they decide to give a shit about. But Snow has always lived at Winterfell, he does live at Winterfell, and it would break his heart if Lord Stark ever tried to send him away. Even if living at Winterfell is as much of a cruel reminder for him as it is for–

“Do you want me to fuck you now?”

Theon's left reeling as Snow pulls away, a thick line of spit connecting his cock to Theon's mouth. He wasn't expecting Snow to _ask_. He pants for breath as his mind races. _Yes, of course I do,_ but he can't just say that. What would his father think? He tries to force himself to say no, but the word dies at the back of his throat – Jon Snow is, bastard or no, too honourable, too righteous, too much his father's son. If Theon said no, that would be the end of it. Snow wouldn't. He couldn't. And Theon, Theon knows he shouldn't, but he _wants_.

Snow raises an eyebrow as Theon continues to not answer, just stares up at him with desperate eyes (he's never let anyone see him look this desperate). He gives an annoyed sigh, sounding more like himself, as he realises a response isn't coming. He takes his prick in hand and brushes it teasingly across Theon's lips – he has to close his eyes and pray to the Drowned God he will not whimper. “You've earned it,” Snow says. “I can be fair, my lady. You were a good, dutiful, obedient cocksucker. Don't you want me to fuck you until you come?”

Theon's eyes pop open as he looks up into – dark grey, almost black with lust, the colour of the sea when you've not slept in three days and all the brightness is starting to fade from the world. He does. He wants those eyes staring into his as he's fucked right open, he wants that dark hair coming away in his hands as he pulls and tugs in pleasure, he wants those square hands wrapping around his prick to finish him off – but he just can't say it.

But Snow won't give him anything if Theon doesn't say something, so he finds himself choking over words. “Jon–”

That stops Snow dead.

Of course. Lady Stark never calls him Jon.

“Get on your hands and knees,” he whispers, and Theon barely hears it but once he does, he scrambles to obey. _He didn't make me say it. He can be merciful._ It's not what Theon imagined, but it'll do.

His hands are rough as they shove Theon's skirt up around his waist, but Theon doesn't mind. He shudders when Snow spits on his hole. “You ever been fucked up the arse before?”

“No,” Theon coughs. Of course not, he is the heir to the Iron Islands, not some pervert rentboy, why would he – why is he–?

“Hmm. Is that what my father did to her that he couldn't do to you?” Snow considers this for a moment. “Except that wouldn't really conceive a bastard, would it?”

Well Snow isn't so green, he knows a little. He wants to ask if Snow's ever done this before, he should try and figure out what he's in for, but he still can't bring himself to speak. Despite how hard he tries he can't help but whimper when Snow presses a spit-covered finger to his entrance – it's going to hurt, he knows it's going to hurt. Even the times he's done this to girls at the brothel it seemed to hurt a little, and they had oil to slick themselves up with, and years of experience. Theon has neither. Why is he letting–?

The thought vanishes with a cry as Jon's finger pushes in, and it does hurt, it's hurts a lot, and gods he sounds pathetic – pathetic enough Snow hesitates. “Does it hurt?” he asks, with genuine concern.

He winces. Of course it hurts, but he doesn't want to admit that. He wants to be brave. “Fuck off,” he mutters.

Snow smacks his arse.

Theon jumps, but the sting fades quickly. Snow is too craven to make it really hurt. He wouldn't get away with it. Not like– “You don't talk to me like that,” Snow tells him. Then he scoffs. “I mean, it's unbecoming of your status, isn't it? Unladylike.”

_Would you like her more if she could scream and swear at you like she wants to?_ Theon doesn't ask that, he just groans as Snow pushes his finger in deeper, and fuck, it still hurts. He bites his lip to keep from crying out again, but Snow seems to realise anyway. “I don't want to hurt you,” he murmurs, and pulls his finger away.

_No don't stop_ , Theon thinks, heart racing in a panic (why?). But then Snow spits at his hole again, and Theon shivers as he leans over him, long dark hair brushing Theon's skin and Catelyn's dress. He gasps as Snow's tongue swirls over his entrance, and he almost thinks it's too dirty, a Stark shouldn't– “I want you to like it, my lady,” Snow says, pulling back just the barest amount, breath warming over Theon's saliva-slicked hole. “I want you to remember how much you liked it. No matter how many times you tell yourself you hate me, you'll have to remember I fucked you better than any man ever has.”

Theon shudders. Does he tell himself he hates him? He shakes the thought away. That doesn't matter, and he's pretty sure Lady Stark doesn't have to pretend she hates Snow. But he supposes there's no harm in the bastard pretending. Then Snow's tongue is back at his arse, starting to breech the ring of muscle – but slowly, carefully, with a Lord's wise deliberation. _He doesn't want to hurt me. I know he doesn't._

( _He doesn't want anything from me at all._ )

He moans as Snow's tongue moves in and out of him, and he rocks into it shamelessly, pathetically. _Why am I letting him–?_ but it feels too good to fight right now, Theon's never been known for resisting temptation (hence why he's wearing his warden's wife dress, for one thing), and it seems to please Snow – he gives a pleased hum that leaves Theon shuddering, and then Snow seems to think it's safe to try his finger again.

It still hurts a little, but not much, Theon doesn't do more than gasp – that could be a gasp of pleasure. It might well be, he's not even sure anymore. But he's an Ironborn, he can take pain. Then he starts moaning again as Snow's finger bends and hits – hits something. Snow pauses. “There?”

Theon whines and nods. _Gods, I sound like a whore._ Snow presses harder, rubbing back and forth, and Theon whines again as he clenches his fists in the furs. “You're enjoying this?” Snow asks. Theon doesn't answer. “Good. Remember you like it. Remember what a slut you are, how much you're going to want it again once we're done.”

_How could I possibly forget?_ Theon doesn't say anything, just gasps again as Snow puts his tongue back, using it and his finger to spread him wider. Spit is starting to drip lewdly from his thighs, as precome drips from his prick, luckily missing the navy silk beneath him. He cries out again as Snow adds a second finger, but bites his lip to keep it down. _It's too much,_ but no, he's Ironborn, he can take the pain. But why is he taking this at all, what sort of Ironborn would let his captors, what would his father think–?

Snow does not stop this time, and Theon is glad. “There we go,” he mutters as he twists his fingers, making Theon moan. “You do like it. You like being fucked in the arse like a back-alley whore.”

_Why does it matter if she likes it?_ he wonders.

Another spit and a third finger tries to force it's way inside. Theon shrieks.

“Shh!” Snow pulls his fingers back in a panic. “The servants will hear you.”

Theon takes deep breaths, trying to regain control. “S-sorry.” He's stunned by the sound of his own voice. He sounds so... obedient. Pliant. Young. _Submissive_. That's not how he talks to Snow, that's not how he talks to anyone (except perhaps–). He should be snapping and mocking Snow for his clumsy fingers and pathetic mother complex, but no, he, a Greyjoy, a proud kraken, lets the bastard of Winterfell take him like a dog takes a bitch. Why?

A pause and Snow's nerves seem settled, he pushes his fingers in again and Theon buries his face in the furs to smother his noises. That third finger comes back, spreading him open, and Theon manages it with little more than a choked whimper.

But it still fucking _hurts._

The pain is getting too much, his prick is starting to wilt between his legs, and no, he doesn't want that. “Please,” he hears himself begging, “please, please...”

Snow seems bemused. “Please what?”

“Touch me.” Theon doesn't bother to lift his head, and maybe it makes it easier if he thinks Snow might not know what he's saying. “Please, please, touch me.”

He half-expects Snow to demand further detail, to force him to say _where_ he wants to be touched, just to humiliate him. But that would ruin Snow's little fantasy, wouldn't it? He's pretty sure Lady Stark doesn't have one of those. The hand around his prick comes sooner than he expected, and with more confidence, and he's moaning and fully hard again soon, even as Snow's other hand still pries him open painfully. “Demanding, aren't you?” he asks, and Theon gasps as he buries three fingers all the way in. “I suppose you would be. You've never had to get used to anyone telling you no. Who would dare? You were born expecting everything to go just as you plan, so as soon as anything doesn't...”

Theon groans as he writhes against Snow's hands. _What's ever gone as I planned?_

“Well go on then, my lady,” says Snow, “what do you want? What do you demand of me, merely a humble bastard? What is it your whorish hole is telling you to beg for?”

“Snow – please–” _fuck me,_ is what he thinks Snow wants to hear, and sure Theon wants that but there's something else, “let me–”

“ _Let_ you?” Again, Snow sounds more bemused than anything. “If you wanted to do something, what exactly could I do to stop you?”

Theon whimpers. “Let me look at you.”

That really does surprise Snow. For a second, Theon thinks he's fucked it up, he's ruined the fantasy – why would Lady Stark want to look at her husband's bastard son while he fucks her? For that matter, why would Theon Greyjoy want to look at Lord Stark's bastard son while he fucks him?

Snow pulls his fingers out and grabs him by the hips, flings Theon onto his back to fast it leaves him dizzy, like he's been at sea for weeks.

He knows, rationally, it's going to hurt more in this position, but it doesn't seem to matter. It's going to hurt like a bitch either way, isn't it? He gazes up and finally sees what Snow looks like – how red his cheeks have gone, the cold and yet wild look in his eye, the tangled mess that is his dark hair, his hard cock hanging out of his breeches. The sight of it takes Theon's breath away for a moment – it's bigger than he expected, curving like an invitation, purple like bruises. It scares Theon. It allures him. It's so hard, and Theon suddenly feels so much safer, because Snow _wants him._

(Why does that matter?)

“You want to see me,” whispers Snow, like if someone hears him then it won't be true anymore. He'll still a child at heart, really. “You want to see the look on my face as I fuck you.”

Theon groans and nods. _Please don't ask me why._ Snow doesn't, he just sighs and takes Theon's thighs in each hand, spreading them far enough Theon's afraid the dress might rip. Snow wraps Theon's legs around his waist, and takes his prick in hand to press it to the wet hole. Theon shivers in terror and anticipation. “Do you like the thought of this, Lady Stark? Of being such a slut you'd let your husband's son fuck you?” He pauses. “Is that why you've always treated me like this? Was I just too much of a temptation?”

Theon bites his lip and looks away. He wishes he didn't have to, but he can't bring himself try and answer Snow's questions. Fuck if he knows what goes through Catelyn Stark's head.

But because he's not looking, it means it doesn't see it coming when Snow suddenly thrusts into him.

Oh gods, it hurts. He gasps at first, then wails as Snow sinks past the head, burying his whole length with agonising slowness. Theon's not ready, not really, and his body screams in protest. But he doesn't try and push Snow away – no, he wraps his legs around Snow's waist tighter, pulling them in, and he finds his arms curled around Snow's back and clinging to his shoulders for support. He's weak, needy, maidenly. He's sure Lady Stark is nothing like this when she gets fucked. The only times he's ever been able to imagine fucking her she's been on top of him, pinning his wrists above his head, using his cock for her own pleasure. But she's never been cruel about it. She's given him that small smile of hers, the one she gives everyone but Snow, and she's told him he's good, his cock is good, and she'll let him come so long as he does what she wants.

But he supposes it'd be different for Lord Stark.

The thought vanishes as Snow gently starts to move his hips back and forth, and Theon cries out again – there's pain in it, but it's starting to abate, and there's pleasure in it too. “So tight,” Snow groans and then bites his lip, not wanting to give Lady Stark any praise she wouldn't give him, and Theon gasps, digging his nails into Snow's cotton shirt. It does feel good, Snow's cock brushing against that place inside him he found before. But that's not it, not really, it's the look in Snow's grey eyes – dark, wanting, possessive. _You're mine,_ they seem to say. _You belong to me, and I can take you whenever I want you. And I will. I will take you again and again, and you will love it, you will do anything to please me. But you will please me, and I will keep you, my good little bitch, my personal whore, my own saltwife–_

Theon thinks of Robb for some reason, as he moans while Snow's thrusts quicken. What would he think of this? He wouldn't understand, how could he? It'd break his heart to think his brother hates his mother so much he wants to fuck her. It'd break his heart to think Snow was willing to take that rage out on Robb's closest friend (or his closest friend who isn't a blood relative). _What about me, Jon?_ he would ask. _I look just like my mother, after all. If you'd caught me in her clothes, what would you have done?_

And Theon, what would he think of Theon?

Would he bother to think about Theon at all?

Of course, Snow would never do this to Robb – he wouldn't get away with it. No-one would. Robb is his parents' perfect son, the little Stark heir (even if he looks nothing like his father), who would even dare try to take advantage of him? Robb's pretty, but it's not worth the risk. Theon tries to imagine it, Robb lying on his back to get fucked, by Snow, by him, by someone, but it doesn't work. Robb really is just like his mother.

Theon moans as Snow hisses over a sharp thrust, burying his face in Theon's neck and biting his skin. Theon moans and keens into it, knowing Snow is going to leave a mark – and he wants that. His hands move, burying themselves Snow's thick dark hair, pulling him closer, so close Theon can rub his aching cock against Snow's belly, rutting like an animal.

Snow groans and pulls back, looking down at Theon with a wild eye. His gaze fixes on Theon's sore and purple cock, and the gaze is humiliating, but at the same time – Snow doesn't look _displeased_. “Do you want to touch yourself, my lady?”

Theon bites his lip. Really, he'd much rather Snow touch him, but he doesn't think the bastard is going to do that, so he'll take what he can get. He nods. Snow chuckles.

“Alright then. Show me how much you like my cock inside you. Show me how good you can be for it.”

He moans and his wrist protests as he forces a hand between their bodies, running over the sweat-soaked and crumpled silk on his chest. He ignores it. Snow doesn't start to move again, instead he just watches as Theon wraps a hand around his cock, and starts stroking – slowly at first, but then he can't help himself, he's so hard, and the obscene sound of his foreskin smacking against itself fills the air as he gasps in pleasure.

It can't all be about Lady Stark, can it? After all, she couldn't touch herself like _this_ while Snow fucked her, and Theon doesn't even look anything like her. He's always been as cruel to Snow as she is – worse, if he's honest. Snow is probably killing two birds with one stone, but he doesn't want to let on that yes, he'd like to do this to Theon too. He doesn't want to give him the satisfaction.

Theon gasps as his legs seize up around Snow's waist, and fuck, he's so close to coming.

Snow can't hold out forever though, and he starts to thrust in and out of Theon again, and it's still painful and clumsy but Theon doesn't mind, he can take it, he can ignore it. He wants, gods, he wants. He sounds like a whore but it doesn't seem to matter anymore, he moans as he rocks his hips back against Snow's movements, he cries out when Snow manages to hit that spot inside him, he writhes against warmth northern furs and shivers beneath cool southern silk, so unlike anything on–

“Fuck, there we go,” Snow mutters, his prick throbbing inside Theon's hole, and it can't last much longer, “you like it, don't you? Tell me – tell me you like it.”

So that's what Snow wants. He hates Lady Stark for how she's treated him, but at the same time, he's never going to stop wanting her approval. He probably thinks this is the only way he can get it. Who knows, maybe he thinks if he's good enough, she won't want to get rid of him anymore. Theon should laugh at him, but– “Love it, gods, fucking love it,” Theon hears himself gasping, and he doesn't sound a thing like Lady Stark, “gods, more, please, fuck me, do what you want with me, I'm yours you can do anything just – just keep me–”

Snow groans and his hips snap viciously against Theon's, thrusting in and out like a wolf in a rut, and gods it hurts so much but Theon can bear it, he can bear pain, he's not afraid, if he's wanted then he doesn't have to be afraid– “Fucking whore,” Snow grunts in his ear.

“Your whore.” Theon doesn't know why he's saying these things, but Snow seems to approve. “I'm – you want me, you wanted me from the start, that's why you – and you can do anything, I don't mind, I'll like it, I'll be whore, your wife – I'll be your saltwife – oh drowned god–” the cock going in and out of him is so good, but Theon is staring into those eyes, Stark grey black with lust, looking down like they want him, they need him, they _love_ him, “Lord Stark–“

“Fuck!” Snow buries himself balls-deep and then stops, shuddering and moaning as he spills, his come filling Theon with warmth and water. Theon whimpers, strokes himself once more and finds he's coming too, crying out as his seed flies up in an arch, splattering all over Lady Stark's lovely dress.

Snow collapses onto him as he finishes, curling tight like he expects Theon to hold him. Theon tries to catch his breath, tries to force his mind to stop racing. What did he just –? He would never – _Lord Stark_ would never, for one thing. He's too honourable too take advantage of his ward – of his hostage, of the boy he could have killed for saying no. Of the boy he could have killed for anything at all. Too honourable to give Theon the opportunity to make him not want to kill him. But he wouldn't – just because he's _what he is_ doesn't mean he'd just let Lord Stark do what he liked to him, gods, what would his father think–

Theon shoves Snow away. The bastard doesn't seem surprised.

They lie there, side by side, neither willing to break the painful silence. Snow got what he wanted. Someone to take out the pain and hurt he feels every day when Lady Stark strikes him with her cold glare, because she would never let him. Sure, Theon doesn't like him either, but Snow doesn't care if Theon doesn't like him. Theon was just convenient. Snow doesn't want Theon at Winterfell any more than his father ever did.

Why did he let Snow do it? The Lord of Winterfell is one thing, but the bastard? Is he that fucking desperate for love?

_No,_ he tells himself, _I only went along with it because he'd tell everyone what he saw if I didn't._

(Theon doesn't really believe that. But he has to believe something.)

He looks down at the dress, white droplets across midnight blue, like the sky at night. You could sail the seas by it. What is he going to do with the fucking thing? He can hardly smuggle it back to Lady Stark's wardrobe now, not if he doesn't want the servants gossiping about the stains. He doesn't know how he'd clean the thing, especially not without getting caught. He can't bear the thought of keeping it in his room, what if someone found it? He might have to burn it after all, but it seems like a waste – it's a nice dress, and that silk must have been expensive. He feels so stupid.

“Theon?”

He groans and rolls on his side. “Fuck off, Snow,” he says. He doesn't know what the bastard wants – to mock him, to manipulate him, to apologise – all he knows is he can't bear the thought of looking into those grey eyes for another second.

A pause and he hears Snow sigh, then the bed lightens as Snow gets up, readjusting his clothes. Theon does not look at him. Another pause, and then he heads for the door.

Just as the knob turns however, Theon is struck dumb with fear, and calls out: “Jon?!”

Jon seems confused as Theon rolls on his side to face him. He doesn't look that much like his father, not really. “Please don't tell anyone.”

Another pause, and then Snow gives a bitter scoff.

“Don't worry," he says, "I don't want Lady Stark getting word of this.”

And then he goes, leaving Theon alone with his shame and ruined dress.


End file.
